The memory keeper's daughter - Kim Edwards [90]
“Oh, I know, I’m used to it. It’s only Paul who concerns me.”
“Paul concerns me too,” David said. “That’s why I’m here.”
“Yes. Indeed.” Her voice was sharp and clipped. “So you are.”
He could feel her anger, radiating in waves. Her short blond hair was perfectly styled, and she was all shades of cream and gold, wearing a natural silk suit she’d bought on her first trip to Singapore. As the business had grown, she’d traveled more and more, taking tour groups to places both mundane and exotic. David had gone with her a few times in the early days, when the trips were smaller and less ambitious: down to Mammoth Cave or on a boat ride on the Mississippi. Each time he’d marveled at Norah, at the person she’d become. The people on the tours came to her with their worries and concerns: the beef was undercooked, the cabin too small, the air-conditioning on the fritz, the beds too hard. She listened to them thoughtfully and stayed calm through every crisis, nodding, touching a shoulder, reaching for the phone. She was beautiful still, though her beauty had an edge to it now. She was good at her work, and more than one blue-haired woman had taken him aside to make sure he knew how lucky he was.
He had to wonder what they would have thought, those women, if they’d been the ones to find her clothes discarded in a pile on the beach.
“You have no right to be angry with me, Norah,” he whispered. She smelled very faintly of oranges, and her jaw was tense. Onstage, a young man in a blue suit sat down at the piano, flexing his fingers. After a moment he plunged in, the notes rippling. “No right at all,” David said.
“I’m not angry. I’m just nervous about Paul. You’re the one who’s angry.”
“No, it’s you,” he said. “You’ve been like this ever since Aruba.”
“Look in the mirror,” she whispered back. “You look like you swallowed one of those little lizards that used to hang on the ceiling.”
A hand fell on his shoulder, then. He turned to see a heavy woman sitting next to her husband, a long chain of children extending out beside them.
“Excuse me,” she said. “You’re Paul Henry’s father, aren’t you? Well, that’s my son Duke playing the piano, and if you don’t mind, we’d really like to hear him.”
David met Norah’s eyes then, in a brief moment of connection; she was even more embarrassed than he was.
He settled back and listened. This young man, Duke, a friend of Paul’s, played the piano with an intent self-consciousness, but he was very good, technically proficient and passionate too. David watched his hands move over the keys, wondering what Duke and Paul talked about when they rode their bikes through the quiet neighborhood streets. What did they dream, those boys? What did Paul tell his friends that he would never tell his father?
Norah’s clothes, discarded in a bright pile against the white sand, the wind lifting the edge of her wildly colored blouse: that was one thing they would never discuss, though David suspected that Paul had seen them too. They’d risen very early that morning for their fishing trip and had driven up the coast in the predawn darkness, passing little villages along the way. They weren’t talkers, either he or Paul, but there was always a sense of communion in the early hours, in the rituals of casting and reeling, and David looked forward to this chance to be with his son, growing so fast, such a mystery to him now. But the trip had been canceled; the motor on the boat had given out and the owner was waiting for new parts. Disappointed, they’d lingered for a while on the dock, drinking bottled orange soda and watching the sun rise over the glassy ocean. Then they drove back to the cottage.
The light was good that morning, and David, though disappointed, was also eager to get back to his camera. He’d had another idea, in the middle of the night, about his photos. Howard had pointed out a place where one more image would tie the whole series together. A nice guy, Howard, and perceptive. Their conversation had been on David’s mind all night, generating a quiet excitement. He’d hardly slept, and now he wanted to