The memory keeper's daughter - Kim Edwards [91]
Alone in the cottage, David moved the bowl of oranges to the counter and spread his photos on the table. They fluttered in the breeze; he had to anchor them with shot glasses. Norah complained that he was becoming obsessed with photography—why else would he bring his portfolio on vacation?—and maybe that was true. But Norah was wrong about the rest. He didn’t use the camera to escape the world. Sometimes, watching images emerge in the bath of developer, he glimpsed her arm, the curve of her hip, and was stilled by a deep sense of his love for her. He was still arranging and rearranging the photos when Paul returned, the door slamming hard behind him.
“That was fast,” David said, looking up.
“Tired,” Paul said. “I’m tired.” He walked straight through the dining room and disappeared into his room.
“Paul?” David said. He went to the door and turned the handle. Locked.
“I’m just tired,” Paul said. “Everything’s fine.”
David waited a few more minutes. Paul was so moody lately. Nothing David did seemed to be the right thing, and the worst were talks with Paul about his future. It could be so bright. Paul was gifted in music and sports, with every possibility open to him. David often thought that his own life—the difficult choices he had made—would be justified if Paul would only realize his potential, and he lived with the constant, nagging fear that he’d failed his son somehow; that Paul would throw his gifts away. He knocked again, lightly, but Paul didn’t answer.
Finally, David sighed and went back into the kitchen. He admired the bowl of oranges on the counter, the curves of fruit and dark wood. Then, following an impulse he could not explain, he went outside and started walking down the beach. He’d gone at least a mile before he glimpsed the bright flutter of Norah’s shirt from a distance. When he got closer, he realized that they were her clothes, left lying on the beach in front of what must be Howard’s cottage. David stopped in the bright glare of the sun, puzzled. Had they gone for a swim, then? He scanned the water but didn’t see them, and then he kept walking, until Norah’s familiar laughter, low and musical, drifted out of the cottage windows and stopped him. He heard Howard’s laugh too, an echo of Norah’s. He knew then, and he was gripped by a pain as gritty and searing as the hot sand beneath his feet.
Howard, with his thinning hair and his sandals, standing in the living room the night before, giving cool advice about photography.
With Howard. How could she?
And yet, all the same, he had expected this moment for years.
The sand pressed up hotly against David’s feet and the light glared. He was filled with the old, sure sense that the snowy night when he had handed their daughter to Caroline Gill would not pass without consequence. Life had gone on, it was full and rich; he was, in all visible ways, a success. And yet at odd moments—in the middle of surgery, driving into town, on the very edge of sleep—he’d start suddenly, stricken with guilt. He had given their daughter away. This secret stood in the middle of their family; it shaped their lives together. He knew it, he saw it, visible to him as a rock wall grown up between them. And he saw Norah and Paul reaching out and striking rock and not understanding what was happening, only that something stood between them that could not be seen or broken.
Duke Madison finished playing with a flourish, stood, and bowed. Norah, clapping hard, turned to the family sitting behind them.
“He was wonderful,” she said. “Duke is so talented.”
The stage was empty then, and the applause faded. One moment passed, and